The Pages of Your Life

…We spend our years as a tale that is told.…So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom. – Psalm 90:9, 12 (KJV)

Because Dad was energetic and successful, he was frequently promoted or transferred to other parts of the country. After several years with Mobil Oil, he accepted a new role in sales with The Wall Street Journal. Through the years, we moved to New York, New Jersey, Michigan, Maryland, California and on and on. We lived in nearly 20 different homes before I turned 20. I often felt like the new kid in school—which I usually was. In the sixth grade, for example, I went to three schools—two on the East Coast and one on the West Coast!

One day when I was attending kindergarten in Rockville, Maryland, I didn’t show up at the bus stop after school. Every bus stop looked the same to me, and I had become confused. When I was still on the bus after the last stop, the driver asked if I was lost. I replied, “Yes,” and he circled around the entire bus route again until I finally figured out where I was supposed to get off. Imagine how concerned my mother was when I finally showed up! It was not the last time that I would become lost in a new environment from our constant moves.

From Maryland we went to Buffalo, New York, where I entered first grade. Although I was sometimes shy, I had to survive in a harsh world. I was laughed at because of my long, curly auburn hair. An insensitive teacher made the year even harder for me. During art lesson one day, we were told to color a picture of strawberries. The teacher came up behind me and hovered over my shoulder. Suddenly, I got a swift whack on my little hand. She told me that I was messy and shouldn’t have colored outside the lines. I was shocked and couldn’t hold back my tears. Eventually, she sent me to stand in the corner of the room. I couldn’t stop crying, and finally the teacher called in my older sister, Ginny, to comfort me.

Later that year the teacher wrote on the bottom of my report card, “Arlene is a problem child.” I studied my father’s face as he read the report, anxious to see how he would respond. He put the letter down, looked at me and broke into a big smile. Then, picking me up in a giant bear hug, he began to laugh.

Dad thought her comment was so funny because, to him, I was such an easy, compliant child. He saved that report card all through the years in a box of memories. It was a great reminder of how wrong people could be. From time to time, he would remind me to deliberately “color outside the lines.” “It’s good to be different,” he’d tell me. In his mind, going against the flow was a positive characteristic—something he applauded.

In time, I learned to be tougher and not let people push me around. Dad and Mom helped a lot. Sometimes they would give me a small stack of gospel tracks to give to my teachers and classmates. This taught me courage. No one was too young to share the good news, Dad told us.

Dad was a fast-rising executive at The Wall Street Journal and eventually became the national sales manager. He loved sales and the Journal and found many ministry opportunities there as he led co-workers to Christ. The job also provided us the opportunity to give substantial financial support to several missionary families. Yet in spite of all the good things about his job, Dad felt God had something else for him in the future. The Lord had planted in his heart a growing desire to be more directly involved in what God was doing in the world beyond American borders.

A good friend challenged my dad, “Your life is like a book, Ted. What are you writing on the pages of your life?” Dad never forgot that question. He often quoted Psalm 90:12—“Teach us to number our days that we may get a heart of wisdom.” Dad constantly evaluated his life in terms of eternity. As much as he loved the business world, he sensed that he would not spend all his remaining years in that environment.

Dad and Mom tested the waters by applying to various mission organizations to see if they could use some help. With Dad’s background in business, he and Mom thought there might be a place for them to serve overseas. The responses varied but always boiled down to the same conclusion: “You don’t have any formal theological training. You haven’t had any missions experience. You have too many children.” There didn’t seem to be a place for us on the mission field after all.

As Dad and Mom considered their options, they talked with another close friend who was a mobilizer at heart and had always encouraged Dad not to give up his dream. This time, however, his words went beyond encouragement. He asked a question that eventually changed my dad’s life: “Ted, why don’t you start your own mission agency?”

Not long after that, Dad made the decision to leave the Journal. He talked with the family regarding his desire to explore new opportunities to serve the Lord. We were not surprised because we’d seen it coming. It was not a matter of if Dad would leave, but when.

As a family, we were excited to live by faith and trust God for all our needs. We moved to northern Virginia to be part of Faith Bible Church, which my uncle pastored. I was a sophomore in high school, and it was difficult for me to leave behind my cheerleading and youth group. Dad started a one-truck moving company to put groceries on the table. He used the remainder of his time to volunteer at a Christian college. We were there for two years before Dad accepted a job with Gospel Light Publications in Glendale, California.

I was 16 years old, and on the long drive to the west coast, I read aloud to my parents and Carol from a best-selling book by a man named Don Richardson, which my brother John had given me. John loved it so much that he insisted everyone in the family read it. Peace Child was the riveting story of the Richardson family’s 15-year adventure as missionaries in the jungles of New Guinea. Many of the tribes living in the remote jungles of the island were headhunters, even cannibals. Few had experienced any meaningful contact with the outside world.

As my family drove across the country, we were mesmerized by the Richardsons’ adventures. It took two months for them to get to their new home. On the final stretch, they paddled through the headwaters of the Kronkel River into the jungle domain of a stone-age tribe called the Sawi. We marveled that a young couple would choose cannibals for neighbors and a hut on stilts with see-through walls as their first home. Even more shocking, they went with a six-month-old baby. How, we wondered, would little Stephen play in parasite-infested swamps? As the story continued, we pictured him navigating the jungle trails like a modern-day Tarzan, munching on sago grubs, termites and cassowary eggs, a little blonde-haired boy who wore nothing but shorts, chattering effortlessly with Sawi friends and paddling his stand-up sports canoe through tea-colored rivers.

I found myself transported to a distant world as I read Peace Child that summer of 1977. My heart was captivated with the notion that I, too, could be God’s ambassador to a radically different culture, learn an exotic language and grow to love the ways of the people. I could see myself transforming a thatch-roofed shelter into a simple home, treating tropical infections and diseases, delivering babies by firelight, teaching men, women and children to read God’s Word and raising my family among them. The combination of risk, adventure and spiritual fruitfulness was irresistible.

Suddenly, the careers that my high school friends were considering seemed colorless. As our car traveled west toward California, I wanted to leave New Jersey far behind—and the American dream with it. I had discovered a cause far more compelling. I sensed within my heart a growing determination to live my life on the edge.